


End of Watch

by shewho



Series: All is Well (It’s Only Blood) [2]
Category: Blue Bloods (TV)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Law & Order: SVU - minor crossover, Medical Inaccuracies, Non-Canonical Character Death, Not Established Relationship, Off-screen death, POV Multiple, Police Procedural, Tags Contain Spoilers, morgue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8259913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewho/pseuds/shewho
Summary: ‘Please, God, let Jamie be okay,’ Danny Reagan prays, even though he’s only nominally Catholic anymore.-----Being dragged through hell doesn’t get any easier the second time around.





	1. Danny Reagan

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Part Two of “All is Well (It’s Only Blood)”, the massive fic re. the death of your favorite baby Reagan and mine, Jamie! Three parts heartbreak, two parts pain, with a generous helping of suffering on the side.
> 
> In this part you will see: Danny Reagan informed of his brother’s death, Eddie Janko’s IAB incident interview (featuring special crossover guest Ed Tucker of “Law & Order: SVU”), Danny identifying his brother’s ~~corpse~~ ~~body~~ corpse, and Frank Reagan being informed of yet another son’s untimely death. Enjoy!

_Please, God, let him be okay,_ Danny Reagan prays, even though he’s only nominally Catholic anymore.

_Fuck, please. We can’t lose him. We can’t lose Jamie; we’ve come so close to losing him already._

Jamie is so young, is the thing.

Danny slams one hand into his steering wheel as he drives the all-too-familiar route to the hospital because he wants to scream, _Jamie is so young_.

He’s so young. He has so much to live for. _Please, God, please, please, he has to be okay._ The kid’s not even forty; he’s barely had enough time to do anything with his life yet.

Except that assessment’s not really being fair to Jamie. Undergrad, Harvard Law, almost three years at Baxter-Chase, then the police academy, a stellar six years on patrol, getting tapped as one of the few non-detectives to do multiple long-term UC assignments, and being headhunted by SIU. That’s a lot, Danny understands, logically. It’s a lot that his kid brother has done in so little time.

He’s so young, and sometimes ridiculously stupid, but he’s also impossibly smart, and he’s kind, and faultlessly loyal, and strong.

_Jamie’s strong,_ Danny reminds himself as he puts on his lights, lets the siren scream through traffic. If anybody can pull through this, it’ll be Jamie.

The arresting urgency to get to Jamie’s side is dulled – albeit only slightly – by the prospect of just how bad this might actually be. This sort of thing, this could all too easily be a career-ender for the kid.

At least he’s still got that god-awful-expensive law degree to fall back on.

*

When he gets there, the emergency room is surprisingly empty. Three boys hold towels to their bloody scalps, snickering at a video playing on the phone balanced between their knees. Behind them, a middle-aged man chats about Adventure Time with – presumably – his son to distract the kid from the painful-looking road rash all down his left arm and leg. To their left, a mother bounces a softly keening toddler in her lap. A few seats down from her is a girl in service blues with messy blonde hair and unsettlingly pale eyes.

Janko, he realizes with a start.

“Janko.” Unwittingly, Danny makes the name into a toneless statement.

The officer’s head snaps straight up like it’s tied on a string, fluttering her shirt collar which, upon closer inspection, he sees is flecked with gore. Even though her hands look as if they’ve had the worst of the mess scrubbed off, her bare forearms still have his brother’s blood all over them.

“How is he; how’s Jamie?”

Eddie’s eyes are so friggin’ blue, a serious, intense blue, the same feverish blue of a glacier. Danny feels like he’s locked in a laser sight when she levels him with that blue, blue gaze.

“Danny,” she says, recognition arcing across her features. Her voice sounds like she’s been gargling drain cleaner, cracking and hitching in odd places.

“So?” he probes. “What is he, d’you think; likely or unlikely?”

“I dunno. I’m not a doctor, Danny, and I don’t play one on TV,” she acknowledges. “But he took five shots center mass. By the time the EMTs pulled him outta there, he wasn’t lookin’ good.” The words sound like they’ve been forcibly torn out of the center of Janko’s chest. She fiddles with her watch, refusing to meet his eyes.

There’s blood caked all around the band.

“What the fuck happened?”

“We were on meal break. You know, outta the radio car, walkin’ around. Went around a corner; this car pulled up. I heard the shots, smelled the powder, smelled the blood.” She shakes her head, “After that, everything was just horrible and surreal.”

“Goddammit,” Danny snarls, pacing back and forth across the short width of the hallway to try and burn off some of his nervous energy. “God _dammit_.”

*

By the time a man appears at the end of the hallway calling for the family of Jamison Reagan, he’s nearly worn himself out stalking in endless tight circles.

It’s almost a relief to see the blue-scrubbed surgeon coming down the hall towards them because no matter what he has to say, no matter how bad the damage is, no matter how many more surgeries or months of rehab or weeks in the hospital it takes, the whole horrible affair will finally end.

Still – somehow – Danny doesn’t expect the man to bow his head slightly and being his sentence with, “I’m so sorry, Detective.”

He feels his entire body go rigid with disbelief and horror.

His brother is dead.

The words swirl within the lining of his skull drowning out the doctor’s voice. Gradually, the sound filters back over the low, buzzing whine. He catches snippets of the man’s explanation, words and broken phrases, “chest cavity…lung had collapsed…multiple sucking chest wounds…fragmentation was severe…respiratory arrest…complications…tracheal deviation…vasoconstriction…internal injuries…hemothorax… cavitation…significant blood loss…class four hemorrhagic shock…”, but most of it flies over his head. Medical jargon is more Linda’s ballpark than his.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor repeats. “We can arrange a viewing room if you’d like, so that you and your family can say goodbye to him. I just need someone to make identification first.” The man is clearly searching his face, obviously looking for some kind of reaction, but Danny can only nod.

“Okay,” he says, his voice gone all thick and ropy. “Okay.” And then he thinks he maybe says it a third time, but he can’t be sure because the loud incessant static clouding his mind is back in full force as he sort of watches himself turn on shaking legs and push out the swinging doors. He makes it a couple yards down the hallway to the nearest trash barrel where he retches a few spine-popping times before tossing up his lunch. The smell is overwhelming. His head spins, and he vomits again, and thinks, in something approximating a prayer, _Jamie’s dead, Jamie’s dead, Jamie’s dead._

There’s a hand on his back rubbing unsteady circles. The mounting impulse to whip around and break every bone in that doctor’s fucking useless hand is almost unquenchable. _This man let his brother die. How could you let him die? This is a hospital; you are a doctor. How could you not save him?_

Except when he turns around after spitting hard, it’s not the doctor standing there. It’s Eddie Janko, shock plain on her face like it’s been drawn in with thick, black strokes of permanent marker. “Slap me, smack me, _wake me up_ ,” he implores, the pitch of his voice steadily rising. “This can’t be happening. This can’t be _real_. Jamie can’t…he isn’t.” He can’t bring himself to say it, to even consider the possibility that Jamie might be gone.

When she doesn’t answer, he just stares at her for a second, his jaw tightening. Somehow, there’s still blood everywhere, spattered down Janko’s arms and flecked on her face and soaked into the weave of her shirt, and Eddie…Eddie is shaking so hard he can see it, and Jamie has a string of bullet holes in his chest, and he’s dead, he’s really _gone_ , and Danny bites back a wail because this isn’t  _fair_.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Not with Joe, and definitely not a second time, definitely not with Jamie. Jamie wasn’t even supposed to _be_ a cop.

They were supposed to stay the inimitable golden trio, joined by their dark-horse sister; the sons of the First Family of the NYPD; the crown princes of the commissioner’s seat. They were supposed to work together, to grow old together, buy houses, start families, and in some far-off distant future retire together. They – the Reagan children, Frank Reagan’s kids, the hellspawn of Henry Reagan’s son – were supposed to do this together, and now they can’t.

He wasn’t supposed to put his baby brother the ground.

The soft chime of an elevator’s arrival pulls him from his thoughts.

“Officer Janko,” the man striding out of the elevator intones. Ed Tucker, Danny notes indifferently, the man who replaced Alex Bello at Internal Affairs once the Blue Templar was wiped out. He doesn’t know the man personally, deals more regularly with Captain McPeck in his own IAB holdups, but his reputation precedes him. “You need to come with me.”

“Captain Tucker,” she nods carefully. “You got my PBA rep on his way down here, or are we about to waste forty minutes waitin’ on him?”

The corner of the IAB officer’s mouth quirks up in the very faintest of smirks. “I saw Weiland in the lobby. Now, if you could please follow me,” he trails off, turning away, confident that the involved officer will be on his tail.

“I’ll be back,” she says, starting to back away after Tucker. “As soon as IA lets me loose, I’ll be back, Danny; I swear.”

Danny shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks and rocks back on his heels, “Look, you don’t need to do that.”

“Yeah,” she replies, her face a whirl of anger and guilt, “I do. Your father, he oughta hear it from me.”

“Janko, I’m serious. You should go home, shower, sleep. Something.” His throat feels raw and torn, and the words come out rougher than he means.

A sharp huff of “ _No_ ” is her only retort, and _shit,_ he can hear the jag of tears in her voice before she continues. “Jesus, Danny, it’s just…I was there, you know? I was there. And I’m gonna talk to your dad, be it today or next week,” Janko mutters, looking down at her bloodstained clothes. “Because I feel like _shit_ that I let this happen, okay? I feel _disgusting_. And I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry, I can hardly put words to it.”

“Don’t,” Danny says, trying to keep the shock from his voice. “Eddie, don’t. You don’t gotta be sorry for that.”

She sounds defeated, ground down, and Danny _knows_ that voice, knows _exactly_ what it feels like to have someone die on your watch, knows that the officer would like nothing better than to cover her eyes and find a secluded corner to cry in.

Except she can’t. She’s got a job that needs doing; she has to relay the events of this day to the Rat Squad, and she has to tell her boss that his child is dead. Visibly blinking back tears, Eddie steels her jaw before turning and loping after the IAB captain.

Everything suddenly seems very real and very serious, with the echo of Janko’s footsteps hanging in the air like that between them.

His head throbs dully, a heavy ache blooming at the base of his skull, bleeding small shocks of pain down his spine as he tries to focus on anything but the raw anger settling lead-heavy in his gut.

Danny blanches, both physically and mentally. He can’t believe this is happening again. It’s déjà vu in the worst sort of way. Swearing emphatically, the detective runs a hand down his face.

“ _Fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Unlike the rest of the Reagans, who have the occasional crisis of faith, Danny claims that he lost his faith entirely long before season three. Erin disputes this point, but Danny’s pretty firm about his lack of faith. #lapsedcatholic
> 
> 2) There’s a throw-away line in the show about Jamie working at the law firm of Baxter-Chase, but in canon-timeline, he worked there for approximately six months before attending the police academy. If anyone has had better luck than me at figuring out the ages of the Reagan children, let me know. For the purposes of this fic, Danny, Erin, and Jamie are presumed to be their actors’ ages (47, 45, and 37, respectfully at the time of writing; if you’re reading this after October 21, 2016, Will Estes has now turned 38). To make that work, Jamie has to work at the law firm for more than six months so I’ve given him a solid three years of pre-police employment.
> 
> 3) To my knowledge, Vanessa Ray really has never played a doctor on TV (or in film).
> 
> 4) Ah yes, the Blue Templar. Major season one story arc, the reason Joe Reagan died, almost got Jamie killed; ringing any bells? TL;DR: Alex Bello sucked.
> 
> 5) The names of Danny’s actual IAB case officers (after the disgraced Captain Elwood) escape me, so he’s dealing with the purely fictional Captain McPeck, named for Donnie Wahlberg’s real life mother, Alma McPeck.


	2. Eddie Janko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a short chapter as I attempt to make it through yet another finals season alive. Not my best chapter, but something that needed to get in there. This used to be a two-part-er, with the second half being told by Danny, but that became chapter 3 during the revision process, so look forward to that coming up real soon!

Tucker holds the door of an empty conference room open for her, follows her in and lets the door close behind him with a sharp click. “Officer Janko,” he says firmly, indicating a seat on the opposite side of the table. “Have a seat.”

She falls into the chair beside Jon Weiland, her union lawyer. “Eddie,” he acknowledges. “Sorry to see you again like this.”

The smile she gives him is all sharp edges and knives. “It’s really never a good day when I see you, J. Not ever.”

Her throat still _aches_ fiercely, and her voice sounds like she’s three days into a bronchitis-bender. When Weiland offers her a drink, she merely accepts with a dazed nod. Eddie downs the water in one long pull, ignoring the impossibly loud hum of the air ducts, then begins methodically shredding the paper cup.

With a gesture to the two suits – homicide detectives, Eddie assumes – leaning against the far wall, Tucker clears his throat and clicks on his handheld audio recorder. “Time is sixteen-forty hours, July the nineteenth. I am Captain Edward Lane Tucker of Internal Affairs, joined by Detectives First Class Sandra Cassidy and Eric Matthews, present with Officer Edit Janko and PBA Attorney Jonathan Weiland to discuss the shooting incident involving Officer Jamis – ”

A flash of horror blisters through her, blazing July-blue-sky bright in its intensity, and Eddie’s mouth fires off before her brain can fully engage. “Oh,” she interrupts, unable to help herself. “No, it’s just a homicide now.” Her cursory glance around the room is met with four open mouths. They all look as though their jaws have been unhinged. She feels high all of a sudden, as if her head’s come unattached. Or maybe just hysterical. “He’s dead.”

Then the finality of the situation hits her, and it’s worse than the doctor’s words slamming into her like a semi-truck, stabbing into her chest and twisting hard, leaving her feeling split open from stomach to sternum.

It’s the realization that she’s never gonna pick up her phone after tour and hear his voice telling her that they gotta go back in; she’s never gonna see him a little tipsy in a cop bar somewhere singing crappy karaoke with the guys from their squad; she’s never gonna watch him calm down another rangy kid or shoot hoops with Renzulli or catch flack from his brother.

Tucker stares at her for a long moment, scanning her face like he’s trying to see if she’s full of shit or not. “Officer Janko, please confirm your last statement.”

Eddie leans in closer to the recorder, says it again, clipped and brittle and bitter: “He’s dead.”

The questions fly after that. Did she know the shooter? No. Did she see the shooter? No. Does she think that the shooting was targeted? Not really, no, but she’s not sure. Does she think this incident was in any way related to the death of Officer Reagan’s former partner, Cruz? No, but that was clearly before her time; she’s never been made privy to all the particulars of that case. Does she have any information regarding the vehicle? Only a little; dark sedan, partial plate number. On and on, they labor over minute details, and she knows it’s not the succinct report they want from her, knows that the account is disarrayed and painfully insufficient, knows that she just keeps talking in circles.

Jamie Reagan’s blood is still all over her, though. She can smell it in the stagnant air of the small room.

“Oh, god,” she chokes when that insight clicks, a shrill laugh that borders on manic. “I gotta…I’m a walking biohazard.”

Tucker’s eyes widen a little at that, and a brief glimmer of humanity shows on his face. “I think we’re finished here for today. Officer Janko, thank you for your time.” He clicks the recorder off and slips it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Jon pats her back on his way out, tells her to call if she’s asked to answer any more questions. Cassidy and Matthews retreat behind him, muttering about their need to speak to the responding paramedics and run down the plate. Sliding back her chair with a sharp squeal of metal on laminate, she focuses on the sensation of dried blood flaking and peeling off her skin because she knows she’ll fall apart completely if she doesn’t have something to focus on.

“Hey,” Tucker says, standing slowly. “Do you need me to call somebody for you?”

“No. I’ll be okay. I just gotta get cleaned up,” she replies.

“You sure, Janko?”

Eddie levels him with a steady gaze and repeats, “I’ll be okay,” because maybe if she says it aloud, firm enough and often enough, then it’ll be the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) HELLO, ED TUCKER! The first of a few casual cameos by characters from Executive Producer Dick Wolf’s New York. Strangely, Robert John Burke had a small role in “Blue Bloods” season one as Jyle Hogan. His middle name in this fic is Lane in tribute to the great team leader/sniper of the show “Flashpoint”, Edward “Ed” Tucker Lane.
> 
> 2) Len Cariou played a defense attorney named Weiland on “The Practice”. Jennifer Esposito played Detective Sandra Cassidy; you may remember Donnie Wahlburg as Detective Eric Matthews from the “Saw” franchise.


	3. Danny Reagan

The doctor approaches him cautiously once he pushes back through the swinging doors, letting them seal shut behind him with a muted sucking sound.

“Follow me,” he says simply, leading Danny into the elevator that will ferry them to the ground floor of the building.

The ride itself takes less than a minute, maybe forty seconds, but it is the longest forty seconds of Danny Reagan’s entire life. He wants the elevator to go faster, for this to be _over_ , but also to slow right the fuck down. It’s simultaneously forever and a singular heartbeat before the car slows and comes to a stop. There’s no delaying or denying that this is happening, that this is really real.

The thing that hits him first isn’t the sight of Jamie’s body – _fuck, Jamie’s body_ – silhouetted under the oddly familiar blue sheet, or the pitying expression mirrored on the faces of the doctor and the medical examiner, who’s waiting to take custody of Jamie – Jamie’s _body_ – and move him to her lab for processing. Instead, it’s the smell.

Over the sharp antiseptic smell unique to hospitals, there’s the flat, unmistakable metallic scent of blood.

He never wanted this.

He never wanted to take a silent elevator ride down to the hospital basement, to the morgue, and stand over a metal slab to identify the body that belonged to his baby brother. He never wanted to be on the other end of this particular experience, waiting for the ME to pull back that pale blue sheet. He hadn’t done this last time; he hadn’t done this for Joe. His father did.

He remembers the night of Joe’s death in a series of isolated images. The trill of the house phone shattering the stillness. Scrambling for his clothes and shoes, his gun and shield. The broken look in his father’s eyes. Malevsky’s hushed explanation of the evening’s events, the fucking bogus distress he oozed. The bloodcurdling screech that erupted from Erin’s mouth when she was informed. Jamie’s fingernails biting bright-red crescent marks into his palm all through Joe’s funeral mass.

This is much worse.

“Detective?” someone – the ME, Warner, he realizes disjointedly – asks through the fog, and that might as well be his forename today because the only person who’s called him ‘Danny’ is Janko.

“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Do it.”

Detachedly, he watches the shroud slip off his brother’s face. Well, the face that looks like Jamie. Because it can’t be Jamie lying so silent, so still on that table. Nope, no way; it’s not him, there’s been a mistake, doctor, please, go tell someone else their brother is dead.

Danny knows he must look a wreck but he can’t find it in himself to care. His mouth hangs open and his arm shakes where it’s outstretched to gently stroke his brother’s forehead. There’s a smear of dried blood near his hairline, darkened to almost black. “Jesus, Jamie,” he whispers, the sound sandpaper-rough. “ _Jamie._ ”

His pulse ticks up another notch. He can’t be here. He can’t do this. They need to leave; he needs a minute, he needs a fucking _second_ to be alone, to stop and get a _grip_ and prove to himself that his brother is never gonna be here with him ever again.

He’s never gonna see Jamie’s eyes again, never get blasted by that annoyingly honest sincerity, or see them go liquor-bright after a couple beers. He’s never gonna shove at Jamie in some pickup basketball game, never gonna cry out at Jamie’s flagrant fouls. He’s never gonna receive that asymmetrical smile again, the genuine smile he’s so fucking fond of, not the perfect practiced police academy photo one. They’re never gonna sit in their father’s living room, watching one game or another play out on the old tube TV that their grandfather refuses to get rid of. He’s never gonna drag his siblings – only now it’s not a plural; now he’s just got the one, his baby sis – outside after Sunday dinner and pelt them with snowballs.

No one moves to stop him as he tugs the sheet down to Jamie’s navel, revealing all five fatal punctures. The ragged skin around them is still tinged a bloody pink despite the quick scrub someone must have given him before they let Danny in. There’s the start of some bruising along his sternum, speckles of blue and gray. He reaches out, questing fingertips mapping out the contour of the wounds. _Be at peace_ , Danny silently pleads as he traces the gashes from right to left, one-two-three-four-five, each one a benediction. _Be at peace. Be at peace. Be at peace. Be at peace._

“Would you like to inform your family personally, or would you prefer if a member of the hospital staff does?”

“Uh,” he has seen far worse than this but he still can’t think straight, his brain is still trying to process the sight in front of him, Jamie’s _corpse_ , he can’t. “I gotta…I’ll call ‘em, just, I need a minute first.”

“Absolutely, Detective. Take your time.”

He’s never considered the terrible power that comes hand-in-hand with having this kind of information, the kind absolutely guaran-fuckin’-teed to bring others to their knees, all to himself.

What’s worse than that is that the information is the type that he has no choice but to share.

It’s a real-life, legitimate minefield. It’s a grenade tossed into his lap with the pin pulled. It’s carrying a loaded handgun, and holstering it at his side with the knowledge that in short order he’s gonna be forced to use it on the people he loves the most in the world, the people who love Jamie most in the world.

So what the hell is he supposed to do?

Who’s he supposed to tell first?

It’s gonna kill them.

All of them.

Who is he supposed to _kill_ first?

And then who? And who after that? He’s a detective not a counselor, for fuck’s sake. He’s got the emotional range of a brick; how is he supposed to lessen the blow? He can’t, he _can’t_ , it is what it is: he’s putting the muzzle of a gun up to their heads, one at a time, one after the other, and squeezing the trigger.

It’s bound to feel the same – or worse – pulling that trigger on them, on all of them, than it felt having it pulled on him.

He can’t do that. He cannot, in good conscience, knowingly do that.

“Maybe you should call them,” he chokes, sprinting for the door. He doesn’t stop until he finds himself bent over his knees, panting in an anonymous back stairwell that smells suspiciously of sex.

Jamie wasn’t a saint, but he was pretty damn close. There wasn’t a bad bone in Jamie’s body.

Inside, he rages like a hurricane, an internal whirlwind that’s all screaming primal noises of anguish. On the outside, he doesn’t make a sound, just balls up a fist and strikes it against the cinder-block wall, pummels the concrete over and over until the near-silent tears come and his blood paints the stones red. He tries to swear but the words won’t come.

_It should have been me,_ he thinks. _God, it should have been me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Spoiler alert (for season one of “Blue Bloods”; please tell me you got that far before reading this, guys)! Sonny Malevsky murdered Joe Reagan. What a dick.
> 
> 2) And howdy do to our favorite New York City Medical Examiner; let’s give a hand to Dr. Melinda Warner!


	4. Sid Gormley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A real short little chapter to round out Part 2; get JACKED for the third installment, y’all!

Sid Gormley knocks on his boss’s door, ignoring Baker as she hisses, “He’s in the middle of a meeting.” _When isn’t their boss in a meeting?_

“Come in,” the commissioner calls perfunctorily.

“Commissioner,” he says, shutting the door behind himself and sparing a glance for the minor city official seated before his boss.

“Sid,” Frank replies in the same routine tone as before.

“Sir.” He makes the honorific into a declarative, trying to articulate the utter urgency of the message he’s been tasked with relaying.

The commissioner raises one bushy brow at him, gauging the seriousness in his Special Assistant’s voice. “Vic, I’m sorry, but I think we’ll have to pick this up at a later date. Why don’t you hash out a time with Detective Baker on your way out?”

The man nearly trips over himself in his haste to stand and leave the office. “Of course, Commissioner. Thank you.”

“Any time.” As soon as the suit – _Vic_ – is out of the room, Frank turns and fixes him with that famed unblinking Reagan glower. “Now what is so important, Sid?”

Nothing to it but to do it.

“Well, uh, it’s Jamie, sir. He’s been shot.”

Frank sighs, standing and moving for the jacket hung up in the corner of his office. “What hospital?”

“St. Simon’s, sir.”

Slipping into his coat, patting habitually at his sidearm, the commissioner starts toward the door. “ICU or surgery?”

“Neither.”

Hand frozen on the doorknob, Frank turns to him, disbelief and denial already beginning to appear in his eyes because he knows, somehow he _knows_ , some combination of his sixth (cop) and seventh (fatherly) senses telling him that ‘neither’ really means ‘morgue’.

“He took five to the chest, was pronounced upon arrival, sir. There was nothing the EMTs or any of the doctors at the hospital could do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we’re off to Part 3!


End file.
